


Sound The Alarm

by Tozette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Horror, Non-Consensual, Other, Porn, Tentacles, Vile Smut, Violence, this is the sort of porn people go to hell for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tozette/pseuds/Tozette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucius realises how ultimately expendable he is and the Dark Lord rather indifferently leaves him to the mercy of a betentacled thing in a graveyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound The Alarm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exoscopy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Exoscopy).



> This is porn involving a Lovecraftian tentacled horror, and thus fundamentally non-consensual. It's heavy on the horror during the first half.

It was Hallowe’en. Sacrifices had been burned, wine had been drunk, and most of the Death Eaters packed off home - or at least out of Malfoy Manor.

Two terribly lucky Death Eaters had been invited - or required, in Lucius’s case - to attend their master to the grave of an ancestor, one of the ancient House of Gaunt, who was buried in the ignoble churchyard out in Little Hangleton.

It was a muggle village, although it bore unmistakable traces of magic here and there. Lucius did not think much of it. Lucius held his tongue. There was an art to not drawing the Dark Lord’s attention, and silence was a good part of it.

Bellatrix said what he was thinking anyway, and then Lord Voldemort agreed with her in a sibilant hiss. Nagini slithered, silent and deadly, at his heels. The little group picked their way toward the graveyard unnoticed by the residents of the sleepy village.

The graveyard at Little Hangleton was sprawling and dark. Stout, mossy headstones sprang up from the dirt like an unkind harvest.

Lord Voldemort moved with a fleetness of foot, an easy rolling grace that was difficult to match. He didn’t pause when they entered the churchyard; evidently he knew exactly where he was going. Bellatrix followed with a light at the tip of her wand, picking her way through like a heron stalking a lizard.

Lucius hesitated for a second at the edge of the graveyard, but there was absolutely no benefit to be had in causing delays. He glanced around, and then trailed after the pair, uncertain behind his blank face, carrying the silver bowl and knife with which he’d been charged. The ground was uneven.

He waited, patient and silent, with his chin high, while the Dark Lord found the correct tombstone and murmured soothingly to it in parseltongue. Bellatrix was just as patient - truly, she had all the patience in the world for the Dark Lord - but she moved more. She was a ragged, restless thing in the dim light of her wand.

Finally, the Dark Lord stepped back from the headstone. “Lucius,” he said, not looking toward him. “The bowl.”

Lucius stepped forward and presented the bowl to his lord. He was not required to look up into his face.

“Bellatrix,” he said, also taking the silver knife. He laid his cold white hand on Lucius‘s arm, between the Mark and his wrist. “What was the first thing the ritual required?”

The soft, pleased tone made Lucius’s gut lurch. It meant somebody was going to get hurt. It would probably be him; Bellatrix was the favourite.

“Blood of a pure-blooded wizard,” Bellatrix recited promptly.

Lucius froze. He swallowed. It would _definitely_ be him.

Lucius risked a glance up at the Dark Lord’s expression, at his red eyes and flattened face. He seemed pleased.

“Ah,” said Voldemort. “You don’t mind, do you, Lucius?” he asked conscientiously.

There was only one answer for that. “No, my Lord,” he said, feeling the press of silver against his wrist. He didn’t look at it. He didn’t want to see it go through his skin.

“You’re lying, Lucius,” his voice was a whisper.

Panic. “If there is anything I can give, my Lord -”

“Yes, I think there is,” said Voldemort, pressing the knife down. The cut was deep. Blood welled, ran fast, spattered into the bowl. Lucius’s arm trembled. The Dark Lord pulled knife up, hard and slow, along the vein.

“I could do it,” Bellatrix said. Her eyes were wistful, gazing at the blood in the bowl. It was bright red where the light of her wand hit it.

“Your strength will be needed,” said Voldemort - he spoke rather indifferently, but Bellatrix brightened. “Lucius,” he added in a hiss, “has no wand.” Because it was in the Dark Lord’s other hand. Lucius glanced at it, and then quickly looked away. He didn’t need to be caught looking.

The Dark Lord had a smile worth avoiding. His red gaze flicked from the swiftly-filling bowl at their feet, over Lucius’s figure, to meet his eyes, and Lucius knew his worth was being calculated in that awful red look -- not in terms of money and influence and connections, but in gallons of blood, yards of hair, pounds of flesh, of skin, organs and meat: expensive potions ingredients.

He swallowed. He couldn’t meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. He fixed his eyes on the collar of his robe and concentrated on staying still and quiet, like a mouse confronted with a snake.

He bled until he became dizzy. He bled more than the spell required, until the bowl filled and the blood dribbled over the sides and sunk into the dirt. The Dark Lord held his arm above it. At one point the flow slowed, and he took the knife and made a new cut, long and ragged, alongside the first.

Lucius couldn’t tell what he was waiting for. Was this how the Dark Lord intended to kill him? Bleeding into a bowl in the graveyard of some derelict muggle village?

But, no. He didn’t die after all: when his heart was beating fast and unsteady and his vision was fuzzy around the edges, he was handed off to Bellatrix. She propped him, not very gently, against a headstone.

The Dark Lord ignored him then. He began his rolling, sonorous chanting, finger-painting sigils onto the headstone, moving quickly and lightly.

Gazing upon him, Bellatrix looked almost sick in her adoration. Lucius watched her through heavy-lidded eyes.

After a long moment, she tore her eyes away from the Dark Lord and fixed them upon the long, jagged slits in Lucius’s arm. They were still bleeding sluggishly.

She looked at them for a few very long seconds, and then finally drew her wand and healed the cuts. She was proficient, but not careful. When she finished, they were ropy pink scars.There was nothing for the blood loss. That was specialist work. Or there would be a potion. Severus was bound to have one stashed away somewhere, just in case.

Lucius’s eyes flickered shut. He drifted for long seconds.

“Bellatrix,” said the Dark Lord softly, and she answered immediately, scrambling to her feet to help with the ritual.

It was a long ritual, only half in any Latin Lucius understood. The rest was something else, Greek, maybe, old magic. It was very hard to concentrate. Even the Latin slipped away from him.

He felt it when the magic began to work, though: there was probably no wizard inside five miles who wouldn’t - but anybody who did notice would probably have more sense than to investigate a mysterious raising of magic in a graveyard on Hallowe’en night.

Bellatrix’s voice soared, ringing in the clear October air.

The spirit they raised was unhappy at being called, and it took a great deal of power to keep her there.

Lord Voldemort stopped chanting and left the magic to Bellatrix to converse with her for several long minutes in hissing, sibilant parseltongue. The spirit hissed back. The grave stone cracked with her anger, spraying dust and fragments across the bloody ground.

Bellatrix’s voice strained, rose to a shriek, like somehow that would help her hold onto the spirit for longer.

Voldemort was done. He straightened and seamlessly picked up the chant from Bellatrix. She shuddered with the effort, but her spine was straight, and she finished the ritual in perfect time with him.

Their ritual was ended. The spirit was laid to rest.

The churchyard was quiet again.

If the Dark Lord had learnt anything he intended to share with his Death Eaters, he was keeping it close to his chest for now. He didn’t look dissatisfied, so it was possible they’d all get through the night mostly unscathed.

“You must be a pure-blood after all, Lucius,” he murmured, like it had ever been in question. Bellatrix laughed, like this was a terribly funny joke. “Well, I suppose breeding can’t make up for everything. Sit up,” he added, “you’re pathetic.”

With an effort that was mostly willpower, Lucius pulled himself into a sitting position. He leaned against the tombstone.

Somewhere beneath the earth, something rumbled. Lucius could feel the tremor in his legs, up his spine. The stone he was leaning on vibrated with it.

Lord Voldemort stilled. He touched the bloody dirt under the tomb stone.

There was another tremor, accompanied by the distant sound of tearing rock.

The Dark Lord touched the rim of the silver bowl gently. It was still mostly full, a grand waste of Lucius’s blood, which did after all belong to the Dark Lord to waste however he liked. It rippled with the impact of something thrashing beneath the ground where they’d called up the spirit.

He looked from the bowl, to Lucius, and back to the bowl. “Ah," he said finally. “Yes, well, that can happen sometimes. Come, Bellatrix,” he added, waving her closer.

Bellatrix didn’t question this. She surged toward the Dark Lord, pleased to be so close. She glanced at Lucius. “He has no wand,” she said.

“I’m sure Lucius will be well able to make his own way home,” said the Dark Lord. She did not contradict him, and neither did Lucius - even though the too-rapid thump of his straining heart and the pounding of his head and the awful shudder of the ground underneath him made him not entirely certain.

Bellatrix didn’t try again. She turned blissful eyes on Lord Voldemort, and he even rested his fingers on her arm when they Disapparated. The last thing Lucius saw of her were her wide, thrilled eyes, and then they were gone.

The ground shuddered again, stronger this time. Lucius forced his eyes open. _That can happen sometimes._ What could happen?

What had they done? Summoning magic, he supposed, and a splash of necromancy. He had little knowledge of either branch of magic. On Hallowe’en, for the correct conditions...

Only a few rows away, a tombstone broke, cloven down the middle. The tremors sung up his limbs.

His hazy gaze fell on the bowl of blood, the painted seals in the dirt.

It took him a few seconds of puzzled staring to realise that he was looking at a doorway. A doorway the Dark Lord had left _open_.

Panic spurred him where willpower couldn’t: Lucius scrambled to his feet and to the bowl of blood, his blood. _His blood_ , left there - like an _offering_ \- terror gripped him.

Vertigo hit him like a crowbar to the head and he stumbled onto his hands and knees in the dirt. The bowl tipped. Blood spilled. It flowed fast over the dirt, over the sigils, splashed against the tombstone.

Lucius looked up, grey eyes wild, just in time to see the blood absorbed into the cracked tombstone, like water sucked into parched dirt.

The ground bucked.

Lucius was suddenly surrounded by the sounds of sundering tombstones: crack, crack, crack, ever louder and closer, all around.

Now would have been a really excellent time to _have his wand_.

The stone closest on his right broke with a horrible report like a gunshot. Jagged stone sprayed into the air. Lucius flinched. His blood soaked through the knees of his robes. He could feel it sticking to his skin.

He felt it before he saw it: something heaving, powerfully magical, hauling itself up from the depths. He’d thought how obvious the dark magic was minutes ago, but now it was thickening even the air he was trying to choke down. His chest heaved. His lungs struggled. A _muggle_ would feel this.

It surged out of the ground in an explosion of dirt and hissing. Headstones shattered. Some chips of wood, bits of old coffins - old _bones_ \- flew, streamed past Lucius’s face. He raised an arm to shield his face and nearly overbalanced.

He was shaking when everything stilled.

The creature wasn’t anything he’d ever seen; it wasn’t even anything he’d ever _heard of_.

That didn’t necessarily mean it couldn’t exist, Lucius thought a little hysterically, just that nobody was around to tell stories about it.

Its body was big, ill-organised, bordering on shapeless, lumpy and shiny with... something. It had all the appendages in the world, but it still propelled itself with heavy, undulating rolls of its main body, leaving a trail of bloody slime, or - or saliva, maybe. The blood was definitely Lucius’s.

It had limbs. It had _lots_ of limbs. More than an acromantula, but smooth and hairless, apparently jointless, flexible and heavily muscled. They wound snakelike on the dirt and gripped the surrounding tombstones. Several cracked.

Lucius flinched at the sound.

All in all, he was pretty much expecting a mouth to open, somewhere, and show him a glittering array of teeth right before it ate him.

He was partially right: a slit opened in the knot of lumpy flesh, lipless but curved in an alarmingly familiar sickle shape: a smile. It showed its teeth. They were a bright slash in the moonlight; white against the blacknesss of its skin.

Those teeth said _carnivorous_.

It didn’t seem to have eyes. Maybe, thought Lucius wildly, if he was very quiet and still, it wouldn’t notice him, and he could just pass out from blood loss and pretend this had been some kind of hallucination.

A long, pointed tongue slipped out between the creature’s pointed teeth and began to lap at the spilled blood. It made a growling noise that could have meant anything, Lucius was not fluent in the monstrous languages of _wherever that thing was from,_ and - and -

That noise, obviously, meant it was _happy_ with the blood. It licked faster, and then it chased the spill with its tongue, right to where the blood was sinking into Lucius’s robes. The thing scrunched its huge dark body up and surged forward, astonishingly fast.

It stopped when its gleaming teeth and tongue were inches away from his face and it was inhaling, smelling him - _smelling him_ \- and Lucius’s mind went absolutely blank with panic.

He was going to die.

There was a slick, grating sound as a heavy black tentacle released its hold on one of the tombstones. Lucius stared at it, frozen, afraid, unable to do anything but watch it move, smooth but ponderous, through the air.

Blindly, it touched his hair.

Lucius flinched. The tentacle shied away from the sudden movement, but came back a second later. It was thick, and not that mobile, and it didn’t so much stroke his face as... bump into it, awkwardly. Something leaked from its skin and onto his.

The creature exhaled a plume of hot, sweet breath. Its long tongue lapped at the bloody ground.

The tip of its tongue touched his hand. It didn’t seem to mind: it licked around his hand, dipping delicately into the dirt between his fingers, finding stray spots of blood.

Lucius shuddered.

He inched slowly back, bloodied dirt squelching unpleasantly at his knees. He couldn’t disapparate without a wand, so he had no idea where he’d flee to, but fleeing definitely seemed to be in order. He tried to keep his breath calm and even, but it shook on the exhale.

That single tentacle followed his movements, cautious but not hindering, waving in the air as he carefully got to his feet. His vision dissolved into spots when he rose fully, but then after a few nauseous seconds he could see and he could - probably - just walk away.

Very slowly and carefully, he took a step back.

The creature slid slowly forward to where he’d been, where the dirt was muddy with spilled blood, and began to suck at it.

He took another step.

It still seemed preoccupied - with his blood. Perhaps that offering was enough. Perhaps it wouldn’t want more of him. It hadn’t been called intentionally, after all.

And another.

The tentacle swayed after him, like a huge, heavy-bodied cobra rearing back.

Lucius froze.

The creature’s - head? central mass? - stopped licking to rise up and _inhale_. It turned toward him, tongue flicking. There was blood on it, _his_ blood.

Suddenly, swiftly, it lurched forward, hungry, toward him. Beneath its body it crushed the tombstones, it crushed the silver bowl. He could hear them crack and crumple under its huge dark bulk.

Lucius’s nerve broke: he turned and ran. His feet were unsteady, the cemetery was dark, and his sense of balance was unreliable, but he fled with all the speed and sureness of a wandless but very motivated wizard.

Something whipped through his long hair. He felt the pull of it, the brief sting of some of it ripping free of his scalp. An awful, primitive panic rushed down his spine. He was half-blind with it: tentacles, teeth, right behind him. Stones crunched. He sprinted.

A long, hefty tentacle snatched the back of his cloak. It pulled tight. Lucius jerked, pulled up short, and stumbled.

The ground rushed up to meet him so fast he almost didn’t register it - a thump, a sense of shock more than pain, the world tumbling - and then the creature pulled him back by the cloak. He made a strangled noise, hands flying to his throat, struggling with the clasp. The cloak came free and he inhaled a mouthful of dirt, but there were more limbs holding him now.

Blind panic fuelled him, and Lucius struggled and clawed despite how obviously futile it was. He kicked. He shouted.

The tentacles wrapped securely around him, hauling him closer to the toothy amorphous body in the centre of their mass. He smacked his head against a broken tombstone and stopped struggling, disoriented.

Finally, he came to a stop. The tentacles loosened a little, but didn’t let go.

The stars above glittered like diamonds, and they wheeled and spun crazily overhead. Lucius closed his eyes. He was dizzy. He was sick. His head throbbed where it had hit the tombstone. This close to the creature, its magic was an overwhelming pressure.

The grotesquerie’s long, bloody tongue rasped against his face, drooling blood and slime into his hair and eyes. Lucius blinked in dazed confusion, then made a horrified, choked noise and began to struggle.

The monster made a thin sound, snapped its bright teeth, and thumped a heavy tentacle down upon his middle, forcing the air out of him in a wheeze.

There were awful, curious tentacles sliming their way up his boots. He could feel the cool pressure of them on the slick leather, and then the squelching sensation of slime sinking through the knees of his robes.

He inhaled again, against the pressure of the thick tentacle crushing his diaphragm, and then he could feel the cool slick slime seeping through the fabric of his robes up high on his thigh. A long drip ran down the inside of his leg. His stomach clenched.

“No -- _No_!” He turned and smacked it: a sharp, open-handed thing. With the magic of his panic behind it, the slap made the creature flinch back.

Its tentacles stopped moving.

Lucius breathed out a shaky sigh. “No,” he said to it, very clearly, like it might understand him. “Merlin, no,” he added in a low mutter, and began slowly disentangling himself from its slimy limbs. He moved very cautiously, hoping that if he moved slowly enough he would be able to get away from it and stumble home.

It made a noise - a very odd, humanoid noise - a bit like a grumble, and the tentacles tightened. It was so strong. “ _No_ ,” growled Lucius, kicking out at it. His boot thumped hard into its wetly gleaming body, but this made less impact than his bare hand had.

“Nmmmph,” he said, glaring and quickly snapping his teeth shut as a thin tentacle rubbed against his mouth. The _last_ thing this awful situation needed was for the monster to jam a tentacle down his throat and choke him.

He used both hands to shove it away from his face, but the creature was extremely strong and it had many more limbs than did Lucius - and it didn’t seem entirely pleased with his resistance. The spongy tip of one tentacle squirmed over his face, feeling its topography and - incidentally - coating him with slime. He sputtered and spat, and then bruised his mouth against his teeth when it showed further evidence of wanting to explore his oesophagus.

After a second of futile nonplussed nudgings and rubbings against his face - which remained staunchly inviolate to all attempts of the betentacled thing to slither inside him and presumably _fill his lungs with disgusting slime_ \- the creature grew tired of this and casually flipped him over so he was face-first in the dirt.

Lucius inhaled a mouthful of bloody mud and spat it out gasping. He raised himself to one shaking elbow to roll over, but something grabbed his wrist before he could use the leverage. The tentacle was slick and dripping. Another wriggled grotesquely beneath him, ignoring his struggles with casual strength, and encircled his other wrist. Together, these wrenched his hands up behind his back hard enough to hurt.

There was the noise of something popping out of place in his shoulder and a sharp wrenching ache.  
  
Lucius grunted. That hurt.

It pulled his arms up, higher and higher, until most of his weight was painfully carried in his shoulders and his knees just touched the dirt. If it pulled much harder, he thought, shifting experimentally, his injured shoulder would dislocate. That would probably be very unpleasant.

A hefty tentacle slithered from his boots up his legs, over the bends of his knees and up his thighs. Lucius swallowed a mouthful of bile and tried to think clearly. He had to think clearly. There was surely still a way to avoid being rent to pieces by this monstrous thing. He fought back the surging, prickling feel of nauseous panic under his skin.

Slime drenched him. He felt like he was swimming in it. His robes hung wet and ragged on him. The monster made a soft gurgling noise, some nightmarish answer to laughter.

He closed his eyes, feeling a long slick tentacle wrap around his knee. It was so strong, so heavy. It tightened slowly, inexorably, until it hurt. Until he knew, without a doubt, that it could crush the joint.

There would be no running, then.

Possibly no running ever.

Panic filled Lucius’s brain with white noise.

The tentacle tightened. Something in his knee gave way with a terrible snap. Lucius made a high noise, a stupid, whimpering noise. It was the kind of noise an animal made when there was nothing left to do: helpless, alone; afraid.

Other tentacles moved in while he was still reeling with surprise and pain, sliding over him, around him, twisting under the edges of his clothes.

They would drag him, he thought suddenly, they would pull him back under the ground, beneath the worms and the corpses and the bloody dirt, and the earth would close in above them and around them, thick and black and close and suffocating. It would blind his eyes, fill his mouth, pour down his throat when he breathed -

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _think_.

He thrashed violently, gripped by terror.

Panic lasted a long time.

The monster held him down and waited patiently. It waited until until his muscles felt wobbling and weak. It waited until his chest was heaving and he didn’t have the strength to fight any more.

Then the tentacles began to move again. They slid sloppily over him, under the hems of his robes, slicking up his skin, and ignored his jerking attempts to move them.

One slid down his collar, over his chest, and it thickened in such a way that it pulled his robe tight against his neck, tighter and tighter. In moments the fabric was so tight that he thought he would stop breathing, and then the tentacle flexed and the fabric tore with a wet noise, straight down the seam along his spine.

The thick fabric fell away in strips. Smaller, lighter tentacles explored this new surface area for a few seconds, before the monster seemed to suddenly clue in to the fact that its dinner had arrived wrapped: long, heavy tentacles set meticulously about the task of tearing his clothing off.

Lucius shuddered at the sudden feeling of slime dripping onto his spine, running along the decline of his ribs in rivulets.

The tentacles had some trouble with his boots, but not even the thick dragonhide stopped them for long, and moments later the creature had managed to destroy them, too.

The tentacles took the opportunity to explore. He had no idea how many there were, but he felt them writhe on his skin: across his shoulders, over his chest, up his thighs, rubbing slippery goo down his stomach and dripping it on his neck.

A long, slick tentacle rubbed along the crack between his buttocks. Then it pushed, nudged into him a little - and then it dripped slime - saliva - something - across his sphincter. He twitched. Every muscle he had tensed, wire-tight, and he flinched away from that foul, questing touch. No, he thought, no, no, nonono _no_ \--

No amount of resistance or denial or exhausted thrashing would stop the tentacles, and his struggles only seemed to make the creature excited.

The tip of the tentacle slid past the tight ring of muscle and pushed into his body. He made a sharp, undignified noise, an octave too high.

Denial thundered in his skull in time to his racing heart. No, no, no, nononono _nono_ \--

Inching its way deeper inside him, the tentacle moved. Lucius yelped. It felt like a worm or a - a _parasite_ \- crawling inside him.

It was very deep. He exhaled slowly, shallow, shaking breaths.

It was secreting more slime, which pooled between his thighs and ran down the backs of his legs. It also made it easier for another, thicker tentacle to unwind itself from his thigh and nudge its blunt head against that well-lubricated entrance to his body.

The other tentacles held him tight, so tight that there was nothing he could do - he couldn’t even thrash and struggle - when the larger tentacle entered him.

It didn’t slip gently inside like the first one had. It shoved. The muscles burned. He clenched his jaw and made a high, awful noise behind his teeth. The tentacles responded to the sound he made by tightening their grip.

The tentacle paused for a few moments, until there was more slime and everything was slick and slippery, and then shoved forward, hard again.

When he felt like his insides were being shoved painfully aside to make room for its invasive presence, the tentacle finally stilled inside him. Lucius stared rigidly ahead, wide-eyed and unblinking.

Nothing moved for several long minutes. For a while, it was like being humiliatingly impaled upon a statue.

Seconds went by, and Lucius’s muscles relaxed, unwillingly but exhaustedly, into a trembling looseness. He didn’t move. He felt too full, swollen and hurt. He had to breathe carefully. Moving seemed like inviting a lot of pain.

Finally - _finally_ \- the monstrous tentacle spearing him open withdrew slowly, carefully, and he took a full breath and exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. He shuddered when it withdrew almost completely, just the skinny tip clinging to the skin just past his sphincter.

He let his head fall forward, relaxed on the muscles of his neck. Fine.

That was fine. He could get past that, he could --

He shrieked when the tentacle shoved back inside him, with none of its former gentleness. Then it withdrew again, only to slam home once more. He made an ugly, strangled noise. No human would be - no human _could have been_ \- so rough. The monster was too strong.

He was held helplessly steady by the thick, slippery tentacles while the thick one inside him found a hard, punishing rhythm, and he thought about all the delicate, important things that were stored inside his torso being torn and crushed by the tentacles as they slowly pounded their way through him. It seemed like a bad way to die.

Somehow, he jerked an arm free and the tentacles let it go, wrapping instead more securely around his chest and stomach. He scraped up the dirt with his fingers. He clung one-handed to the wreckage of a tombstone, but the tentacles still pulled and shoved him to their own will - which seemed to be getting the deepest, least comfortable angle of penetration.

The single thick tentacle inside him felt like it was shoving all the way into his guts, like if he could look down - if he had the leverage, the physical strength, to heave himself up far enough to look down along his body - he’d see it bulging out from his stomach. It was an impossibility. He tried to banish the thought, not very successfully. Each movement shoved him forward and scraped his skin red against the gravestones.

His muscles burned. He was sore. His crushed knee dragged against the dirt with every vicious thrust, sending nauseating pain skimming brightly down his nerves.

He clawed at the tombstone, trying to wrench himself away from that sloppy impaling limb. His nails chipped and broke scraping on the stone. It was futile: the monster was far too strong. Its heavy black body covered his legs, pinning him helplessly and forcing the knowledge of its weight and curves and detail against his thighs.

There was slime everywhere. Somehow the grotesque thing was excreting more, the thick stuff bubbling up from its pores. He was swimming in it. It burned, oddly, the least unpleasant thing, and he shivered.

A powerful thrust shoved him breathless into the dirt. He broke the impact with his free arm, but it still punched out all of his air. He felt as though the thick, heavy tentacle in his arse was going too far, too much: he was going to tear - there would be blood everywhere, and it would go through him; he’d never have the breath to scream.

The tentacle wrenched back, hauling his body with it. His knee dragged. He made an awful, hurt noise.

A fresh rush of slime drooled over his spine. From where, he wasn’t sure. He had the stomach-turning thought that this was the creature’s equivalent of semen, but -

No. It couldn’t be. No creature walked around _coated_ in its own semen - it wasn’t - this probably wasn’t even a sexual act for the creature. Maybe.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the viscous seep of the stuff over his spine, down his ribs. It hit the bloodied dirt with a foul wet spatter. Another trickle dripped onto his head, sliding thickly through his hair. It slid down his cheek, down his nose, over his lips. He spat. It burned softly on his lips, and then in his mouth when he swallowed reflexively. Slowly it spread down his throat, prickling and burning all the way.

A long, heavy tentacle wrapped itself in his hair and held his head steady. There was one last thrust, an enormous shuddering thing that stretched his insides and hurt like hell, and then a stillness, a trembling of tentacles, a twitch -

\- _Merlin_ , no -

The creature ejaculated, hot slime bubbling up in his insides. He shrieked, loudly, in a mixture of surprise and horror.

It filled him up, and didn’t stop. The tentacle inside him rocked and swelled alarmingly, pulling his body this way and that - gentler, now, with its pressures, than had been the violent thrusting - and forcing his inner walls to stretch. The muscles of his anus twitched uselessly and slime spilt out of him, coating the backs of his thighs. It trickled into the bends of his knees, into the dirt, mixing with his blood.

The slime burned, stretched him out, but oddly it didn’t hurt in itself. It was warm and gentle, and his skin was so cold. A fresh spurt from - he didn’t want to think about that - coated his back in a warm rush that made his skin shiver. It spread its warmth out into his limbs, lighting up the nerves along the way, inside and out. He opened his mouth in a soundless gasp at the sudden heat, which was when he realised that something was terribly wrong.

 _More_ terribly wrong.

The fact that there was a greater degree of terribly wrong to aspire to from his present position - that is to say, facedown in the filth of a corrupted graveyard in a muggle cemetery with a monstrous tentacle jammed up his arse - was frankly astounding.

The monster shuddered and twitched again.

“ _No_ ,” he managed to gasp, despite his ruined voice. It didn’t help.

Another surge of hot slime inside him, another warm wash down his thighs. A feeling ripped through him, ragged and unavoidable, and he did not know what it was at first, just that it was overwhelming.

He couldn’t - he _couldn’t_ -

It made his limbs cease their struggles, tense, and tremble with strain. He made a breathy, strained noise from behind his teeth, which were clenched hard in his jaw. His cock filled with blood, very quickly, and then it was hard, full and ripe pressed against his stomach. He could feel the blood rush to his face, burning in his ears - _no_ , he couldn’t - it was --

It was so bloody _undignified_ , he thought, a little hysterically.

Then the tentacle inside him slid - it was so slippery now, eased by all that soft hot slime, so slick against his aching insides, he made a noise at the movement, _Merlin_ , he felt sick - against something terribly sensitive and at first he wasn’t sure if that hurt or not, and then --

“Oh,” he choked out, eyes widening. A thin tentacle smoothed through his bedraggled hair. It slid through the slime coating his back and neck, making him shudder. “Ohhhh.” The tone of his voice and the heave of his breath hovered somewhere between shock and melting pleasure.

He felt stupid, he felt high. He couldn’t think, there was nothing left in his brain to think with - probably because all the blood left in his body seemed concentrated in his prick. The tentacles gave him back his other arm and he didn’t even try to fight.

He moaned when his face was pressed into the dirt, rubbing against the old stones. His mouth hung open, even when that same thin tentacle rubbed curiously against his lips. He licked it. Saliva pooled at the tip of his tongue. It slid over his tongue and gently rubbed at the roof of his mouth. His voice was low and broken, eyes half-lidded.

The tentacle buried inside him shifted and twitched, interested again - and rubbing. He closed his eyes, fingers curling in the dirt. The tentacle had felt so thick earlier, but now there was so much slime that it moved freely, easily. Another tentacle curled around his thigh, long and slippery, and rubbed up the top of his legs, against his balls - he made a noise, a high, tense noise - and it kept going, moving slickly on until it met the wet ring of muscle where there was already a bigger limb stuffed inside him. He felt the muscles twitch and jerk at the touch.

He groaned. He was loud. He felt like he couldn’t think, like he couldn’t breathe past it: his skin felt swollen, hot and too sensitive. His breath was fast. He closed his mouth, sucked hard on the tentacle between his lips. It writhed happily, and spilled more hot slime down his throat, lighting up nerves where it went. He swallowed. He shuddered.

Happy tentacles slithered over him, quickly again now, seeking and feeling and rubbing against his skin, slick and heavy.

He spread his knees to balance his weight more evenly. There was something wrong with one of them, but he didn’t feel any pain from it, just the deeper press of the tentacle inside from the new angle.

The second tentacle pushed eagerly inside him, found his muscles resistant, and forced its way. It didn’t even hurt. He clenched his fists in the dirt, crying out at the sudden press, and then he was full of moving, writhing tentacles, full of hot slime. They rubbed against each other, they slid against his muscles. The friction of it made him hunch his spine, shamelessly seeking more contact, harder. The cemetery was full of wet sucking noises and the low helpless sound of his voice.

A long tentacle, firm and slippery, wrapped around his middle and almost accidentally rubbed up against his cock while a sudden violent thrust from one of the tentacles buried in him threw him forward. It was good. It was so good. He spread his legs wider and heaved himself back against the tentacles.

They shoved forward again, just as the tentacle wrapping around him coiled around his cock. It squeezed, firm but gentle, and pulled from the base to the tip and he saw stars. His limbs nearly gave out.

“Oh,” he managed, stupidly. The lofty intellectual heights of more accurate articulations, like ‘yes, yes, god yes,’ were far beyond him. It thrust again. He managed a ‘Nnngh,’ noise. God, he felt like his spine was _melting_.

His body jerked, muscles far out of his control, and he could almost not draw breath fast enough for the noises that escaped him. A hot glow of pleasure unfolded in his stomach and spread through his limbs, melting everything it touched. He came hard.

His fingers went weak in the dirt. He heard this sound, over the sloppy noises of the monster, a low, pleased groan. The noise didn’t bother him, and he made it again, loudly, when the heavy weight of the creature shifted, long slippery tentacles pulling out, tugging at him. He was unresisting and stupid with the purring warmth of it. The tentacle wrapped around his soft cock uncoiled, and another shudder ripped through him.

He fell bonelessly against the tombstone when the tentacles released him, inhaling hard through a trail of long pale hair, which was damp and stringy with slime. Everything was very good and he was soft and relaxed and very, very high.

There was semen on his stomach and on his thighs, actual semen, not monster slime. He felt sticky and disgusting. The creature tipped him over and nearly crushed his ribs in its haste to lick up the mess.

He let it, blank-brained and unresisting. His nervous system was probably glowing.

When it had finished licking up every last drop of semen, it made an odd, happy noise and then --

\-- then all of its tentacles retracted. It surged gracefully back to the hole in the ground it had forced its way up out of and slung itself back in.

Lucius propped himself up on one elbow and stared after its disappearing tentacles. _That_ was what it wanted?

All along?

He could have just --?

“Merlin,” he muttered, and dropped back onto the dirt, but he wasn’t bothered. He couldn’t be yet; that would take hours, perhaps days. He lay there until dawn, watching the stars twist and wheel overhead. Chemicals drained slowly from his blood, leaving him sleepy and strangely euphoric.

He did not rouse from his stupor until the sun began to creep over the horizon.


End file.
